


Legacy

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV Show)
Genre: Adult Content, Aunt/Nephew Incest, BECAUSE FUCK THAT SHIT, Childbirth, F/M, Fluff, Jonerys, Jonerys Secret Santa 2019, Marital Strife, Miscarriage, Not show canon compliant, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: Written for Jonerys Secret Santa 2019, for WhereDaydreamersGo.  Trigger Warning:  Description of Miscarriage. I cannot stress this enough.  A little ditty about Jon, Dany, and the family they make.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 71
Kudos: 390





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhereDaydreamersGo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereDaydreamersGo/gifts).



> Edited for some grammar and spelling errors, IS2G no matter how many times I proofread.
> 
> Edited again to add some Valyrian

_ Aemon, 306 A.C. _

It wasn’t hard to guess when the babe was conceived.

During the sea voyage from Dragonstone to White Harbour, they’d scarcely donned clothes, let alone left her quarters, as though they were two feral children who had just discovered sex, following only instinct. And it was a good thing, too, because once they arrived at Winterfell, that delicate house of glass they’d constructed around themselves was shattered, and they barely spoke. Oh, there were longing looks and lustful kisses sullied by the tinge of shame. Then he’d left her, quite decisively, and the city burned for it, and he may well have killed her, had she not finally revealed her secret. She carried a child,  _ his  _ child,  _ their  _ child, seeded in her womb in the fog of war. So if he’d had thoughts of retribution or treachery, he put them aside. Instead, amongst the rubble and snow and ash that remained of the throne room of the Red Keep, he held her, and kissed her hair, and they cried, not tears of joy, but of release. 

They’d spent the next months shuffling between King’s Landing and Dragonstone, doing what they could to repair the world around them, but also what was broken between them. He’d kiss her still, hold her hand, rub her back when the babe contorted inside her and shot pain through her back and legs. He was as tender and sweet as always, but reserved, and almost fearful. Fearful of what, she was not certain. Was it her safety or the child’s, or the dragon he’d seen awakened within her, or the one within himself? She could not be sure. She only knew that she loved him, and missed him, and when he finally took her to bed again, for no reason other than wanting to after so many months of estrangement, she allowed herself to hope that they could be whole again.

The child came into the world on a winter day much like any other. It did not snow on Dragonstone, but the grey and dreary days of rain and biting winds bled into one another, matching her ever souring mood as she struggled to find comfort in the last days of pregnancy. Her temper made Jon scarce, for even his breathing annoyed her, and he’d taken to sleeping in his own apartment instead of the royal chamber with her. She didn’t know why she singled him out for her ire, but he took her hint and steered clear of her most of the time. But when she woke before dawn that day, her back aching, doubling her over with pain, she was incensed to not find him lying beside her. Shouldn’t he know? Shouldn’t he have a sense for this? Their child was coming and he was nowhere to be found. But he had plenty of time to come around, as it turned out, for she labored until near midday the next day, and she was sure she was going to die, and she wanted him and only him.

“Take care of him,” she pleaded through pants and cries, her body wracked in cold sweat and pain and exhaustion such that she knew she’d never survive. To her surprise, Jon remained calm, holding her hand, reassuring her that she was stronger than she knew, she just could not give up. It was only later that he’d confessed how terrified he was himself, entreating whatever gods would listen with his prayers to spare their lives, to keep them safe, to get her through this.

When the midwife pulled the boy from her body and she heard that first blood-curdling wail, she nearly fainted with relief, tears streaming from her eyes, unaware of what was being done to her lower half as the afterbirth passed, and the midwives set about the task of cleaning up all the blood and fluid and ugly things they don’t tell you about when describing childbirth. She was burning a bit, torn from channel to channel, but the stitches they applied barely registered as they swaddled the boy and placed him in his father’s waiting arms.

“He’s beautiful, Dany,” Jon breathed, joining her on the bed, handing the squirming, squalling bundle to her. For a minute it seemed alien to her, that this purple creature with her blood and tissue still sticking to his skin, his egg-shaped head, his eyes seemingly swollen shut, was something they made together, and even though he wasn’t as beautiful then as he would be a few days later when the trauma of birth wore off and he fattened at her breast, he was still the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. As soon as his cheek brushed the bare skin of her chest he turned and rooted until he found a sore nipple, and a feeling of contentment and perfect love she’d never experienced before washed over her. She refused the wet nurse, she insisted on bathing him herself once her own hygiene was seen to, and she was loathe to even give him to his father.

Jon, for his part, spent those first few days a smiling, beaming fool. Sometimes she forgot that he even had teeth, but when Jon Snow would really smile, his entire visage would light up, and she resolved that she would find a way to make him this happy every day. He was so, so handsome,the most gorgeous man she’d ever set eyes on, and she loved him. If she knew nothing else in those early days of their son’s life, she knew that, like she knew it when they made him. She cursed herself for ever doubting it, even when he gave her every reason to.

On the fourth day he found her in the nursery. Thanks to an ointment the Maester had conjured, she was finally able to sit somewhere other than her bed, and even walk a little, and she was thankful for it, for she’d been stir-crazy. She’d already memorized the face of every dragon in the reliefs of her ceiling and walls, the carvings on the bed posts, the paths of the bright blue veins that spidered over her breasts, and the puckered, pink markings she now bore on hip bones that criss-crossed the ones Rhaego had left behind, the only part of him she’d been able to keep. She almost didn’t recognize this creature she’d become, her tits twice as large and leaking milk incessantly, her hair dull and lifeless and her eyes hollow and shadowed. But Jon assured her she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, and he’d started sleeping at her side again, even rising to settle the babe in the bassinet at the foot of the bed if he stirred, to allow her some rest. She’d popped off on him only once for fetching the wet nurse when he was certain she just needed some sleep, and he’d looked at her like a whipped puppy, and she immediately started crying like a child herself, begging his forgiveness. A bit dramatic, she thought later, but he’d been understanding, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her hair, ordering some raisin bread and warm milk brought to her at once, wiping her tears away with his thumbs and humming nonsensically against the crown of her head. She finally figured out that Ser Davos had been a constant presence, and had warned him what to expect in the aftermath of a birth, that a woman tends to lose her wits, as is her right, considering what she’s been through to give him a son, but also to give the Realm its heir.

She rocked the babe in a chair as he suckled. The persistent rain had abated for a bit, the dull sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains. She longed for the warmer weather of Essos, so she could sit on the terrace and watch the ocean and bask in the open air. Jon entered the chamber quietly, casting a sweet smile at her as he crossed the floor and knelt beside her, in awe as ever at the tiny little thing in her arms. He’d gotten cuter, his head capped by a silver-white fuzz, his eyes still cloudy but unquestionably the color of the summer sea, like his mother. Even in his sleep he seemed to brood, much as his father did, but he was a contented thing nonetheless, only fussing when he needed a nip or a clean nappy. Just now he raised his scrawny little arm and rested it against her chest as if to let his father know in no uncertain terms to whom his mother belonged for now.

“Does he ever stop eatin’?” Jon said with a soft chuckle, stroking the boy’s forehead with his thumb. “I never took you for a dairy cow.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was mirth in her face and he paid it no mind. It was time consuming, but she relished it, because this was what she was meant for, to grow and give and sustain this precious little life.

“He’s nearly asleep.” She managed to scoot over in the chair, wordlessly inviting Jon to sit beside her, and he did, though it was crowded and a bit uncomfortable. The baby mewled in protest, but she kissed his tiny head and shushed him, and he cooed and resumed his efforts, more insistently than before, thanks to the intrusion. Jon reached a finger to the little one’s palm, and the babe clutched it, and Jon wagged it gently as he smiled.

“I don’t know if he likes me.”

“He’ll come around. Drogon did.”

“Drogon is a dragon and he’s not my son.”

“He’s mine though,” she reminded him with the same look she always gave him when he needed to remember that the dragon was just as much her child.

“Don’t you think it’s time we came up with a name?” Jon asked, shifting his dark eyes from his son to her. “We can’t just call him ‘the baby’ forever.”

She heaved a contented sigh as the boy popped his lips from her nipple and began snoring. Wordlessly, she passed him off to Jon, who cradled him carefully and placed him in the bassinet. 

“What name did you have in mind?” She pushed herself off the cushioned chair with only a wince of discomfort. She still had a little pain with walking, and Jon was quick to her side, helping her over to the window seat, where they could both look across Blackwater Bay to the silhouette of the mainland in the distance. 

He looked at her with the earnest expression that always had such sway over her. He tucked a strand of limp hair that had come undone from her simple plait, and his thumb grazed over her cheek and rested on her neck, and she wanted him then, even though it was far too soon to entertain such thoughts. She could tell he felt the same, though she could not fathom why, as wretched as she looked. She suddenly craved a bath, and made a note to have the tub in her chambers prepared. She wished he could join her, but she was still passing clumps of blood that the midwife told her would not subside for another few weeks. Once that was done, if she was otherwise healed, they could lay together again. She felt a twinge in her core, and quickly pushed aside the thought.

She clasped her fingers around his hand, and smiled back at him. “Let me guess. A Northern name like Eddard or Brandon.”

“No.” Jon shook his head. His hair had grown, his curls kissing his shoulders now. “There’ll be time for that.”

“Will there?” 

“Yes, if you want.” 

She really hadn’t thought of that. This one was enough of a surprise, so certain she was that she’d never conceive, that she dared not consider having more. But suddenly, mothering more of Jon’s children was something she wanted more than she could recall wanting anything, even the throne. In truth, in the last days of her confinement, she’d hardly thought of the kingdom at all. She hoped her council wasn’t tearing the whole thing down in her absence, but if they were, she couldn’t find it in herself to care that much right now. Jon had offered to help, but as reticent as she was to admit it, she wanted him here, where nothing could touch them.

She leaned forward and kissed his nose. “Let’s get this one weaned and out of his nappies first,” she said. “Then we’ll see.”

“Aye, we’ll see,” he repeated, his lids drooping, eyes soft, a smile ghosting his lips as he leaned in for a kiss. “But I hope you will. Because I love you and I want to build a family with you. One or a dozen, it doesn’t matter. I never thought I’d have a child, much less with a Queen, but here I am, and for the first time in my life I know what I want and where I want to be.”

It was as raw and open as he’d been with her, probably since the time he told her how he got his scars, only there was a surety to him now that hadn’t been there before. He loved her. It wasn’t something uttered in the heat of passion, or to make her feel better when she felt so alone. It wasn’t something to question or debate. A simple declaration, words she thought she’d never hear him say again. The struggle that tore at him for so many months abated before her eyes, and she knew he’d made his choice. She scooted closer and kissed him, and his arms coiled around her back, drawing her to him, the dance of their lips easy and soft, reverent and pure. She broke the kiss and pressed her forehead to his. She didn’t say it back; she didn’t need to.

“So what name?” She whispered.

He pulled back and smiled and took her hand in his, and her heart flipped when he said it.

“Aemon.”

  
  


_ Jaeherys and Alysanne, 307 A.C. _

Twins.

He nearly fainted.

_ Twins. _

A boy and a girl, whelped just over a year after Aemon, born a few weeks earlier than expected, giving their mother hell the entire time, but now here they were, the girl in his arms, the boy in hers. 

Their firstborn was still on the breast, not even crawling yet, when she’d retched over breakfast one morning, and she didn’t even have to tell him. He knew already, for he’d prayed for it, secretly. He knew it was difficult for her. It kept him on edge, certainly. His mother lost her life to give him his own. Her mother had done the same. Aemon’s birth had not come easy for her, a long, grueling labor, and more than once he was terrified that she’d slipped away. But she had not, because she was the strongest woman he ever knew, this tiny, fierce, silver dragon, his heart and soul, his mate for life.

They hadn’t meant to have another so soon. They couldn’t lay together for nearly two months after Aemon came, for the boy had traumatized her body, making her most natural functions excruciating, and the first time Jon was inside her after that, he thought he was tearing her apart by the look on her face and her cries of pain. He tried to stop, but he supposed she felt it was her duty to let him have her, even though they weren’t man and wife. They were Targaryens, and this was what Targaryens….did. Surprisingly, she did find her release once the discomfort subsided, and then after that she was insatiable. Not that he could complain. They had so many months to make up for, so much wasted time when he had rejected her because of his misgivings about their blood relation, and her growing distrust of him. He cringed to think about it now, but he’d been so stupid. He never stopped loving her, not for a second, and instead of reassuring her through all her losses and heartbreak after that, he made her doubt it. 

Sometimes he wondered where they’d be if not for their son. After she burned King’s Landing, Tyrion tried to persuade him that she needed to be put down like the rabid dog she was. The imp was so good with words, and treachery came as easy to him as breathing, and he almost had Jon convinced that Daenerys would kill him and his sisters. But when he found her in the throne room, he didn’t see a bloodthirsty tyrant bent on mass murder, but a lost little girl who hadn’t realized her own strength, in the drunken haze of the aftermath of battle, a feeling he knew all too well. There was a hope behind her eyes, a gentleness and optimism, and more than a little pain and regret, and when she asked him to be with her, and took his hand in hers and placed it on her belly, and told him he was right after all, that the witch had lied, that they were to be not just Queen and King, but mother and father, there was no other choice.

He executed Tyrion himself that day, the dwarf unable to talk himself out of a bind for once. His golden tongue was silenced with the fall of Longclaw over his stubby neck. It brought Jon no pleasure; he’d liked and trusted the halfman until he proved himself untrustworthy. But the truth had dawned on Jon at last, that Tyrion Lannister had never been interested in Daenerys’ ideals and seeing them through, so much as he was in choosing the winning side, of being in proximity to power, and keeping himself alive. How could he have ever served her interests, when he failed her so spectacularly so many times? In his final moments, the dwarf confessed it all. He’d thought he could have his cake and eat it too, as it were. That he could salvage his wretched sister’s life and the Lannister legacy with it, while ruling the kingdom himself as Hand. But when Daenerys caught on, and pushed him out of her circle more and more, and finally stopped listening to him altogether, his turn against her was complete. Yes, it had cost thousands of lives. Innocent lives, inasmuch as anyone in King’s Landing was innocent. The point was that Tyrion never really had faith in her. Only in himself. And himself was all he was left with, in the end. And in spite of his dire warnings to the contrary, Daenerys had actually proved herself quite a competent and just ruler so far. It was not without difficulties and disagreements, of course, but Jon knew that she was determined to make amends for what happened in the capital, to show that she was different than the ones who came before, and she was doing it, more or less. As it turned out, the threat of dragonfire raining down was pretty decent motivation for the high lords of Westeros to go along with whatever Daenerys proposed. And she knew that, and it scared her a little, so she’d formed a council of highborn and common folk and was generally welcoming of dissension, as long as it was expressed to her face.

Now, looking on the faces of his new son and daughter, he could not fathom that he’d considered, even for a second, doing what Tyrion wanted him to do. As terrifying as Daenerys could be, she was kind and gentle in equal measure, and a loving mother besides. And the way she loved him, with such intensity, such fierceness and passion, so completely, he could take the bad with the good. He wasn’t perfect himself, by any means. They could shout and fuss, and be just as like to break things by throwing them at their walls in anger as to sweep them from a table or desk so they could fuck. It was all the same. It was passion. She got under his skin like no other, but he loved her with everything he had, and they were still figuring one another out, what they were to each other, how they worked together as a family unit, how they ruled a kingdom, and he was more than willing to give the time and effort if it meant he could be with her.

She looked so beautiful now, as striking as the day they met. Her hair was pulled back into a loose tail, she was covered in perspiration and her gown was bloodsoaked, but she wanted a few minutes to hold them before the midwives cleaned her up. This delivery had been as easy as Aemon’s was difficult. Jon had just returned from King’s Landing that day, and they’d made love, despite her condition, and it was awkward but glorious. Then her pains had started in earnest just after dinner, and she was on her way to soak in a tub to relieve some of it when her waters broke,and then it was a whirlwind. The first babe practically shot out of her like a fireball from a trebuchet, a baby girl, head covered in a thick, black down, the tiniest thing he’d ever seen, and the boy followed, this one with wispy silver fuzz on the back of his head, but bald on top, like a little old man. Now the girl had her wide grey eyes locked on him, and the boy snoozed even while he greedily suckled his mother’s breast.

“Give her to me and bring Aemon,” she said hoarsely as she turned to him.

The moon was high in the sky this clear night, full and large, and he heard Ghost howl in the distance as if welcoming the new ones to his pack.

“He’s probably sleepin’, love,” Jon chided.

“He won’t be. I want him, bring him to me.”

He nodded and rose from the bed, then went to the next room to retrieve the boy from the nursery, where, sure enough, he was sitting up in his crib, babbling, his chubby face splitting into a grin when he saw Jon approach, two new teeth punching through his gums. He raised his little arms and Jon picked him up, nuzzling him close.

“Hello lad. You wanna meet your new brother and sister? Muña is asking for you.” The boy smiled wider and his arms flailed excitedly as he screeched and giggled, then he tightened his arms around Jon’s neck and burrowed his little nose there, and Jon’s heart melted when he felt his son’s tiny hands patting him on the back.

He loved this. He loved having these babies around, whose parents were the whole world in their eyes. The most important job he had was to protect them, and teach them, to raise them right, always knowing how much they were loved and wanted. It was the thing neither he nor Daenerys had ever known.

It was a sweet sight when he put his son down at his mother’s side, and she turned the little bundles in her arms toward him.

“ Aemon, bisa iksos aōha rūs lēkia Jaeherys,” she said quietly, tilting her left arm where the silver one rested, “ Se bisa,” she said with a shrug of her right, “ iksos Alysanne, aōha rūs mandia.” 

Jon doubted that Aemon even understood what a brother or sister meant, but he started babbling something that sounded like “ Rūs? Rūs muña? Rūs?” 

“Yes, two new babies, lad,” Jon said as he perched on the bed and pulled Aemon onto his lap, proud of his understanding of the Valyrian tongue, but still stubbornly refusing to use it himself, unless it was to whisper naughty things to Dany in bed sometimes.

“Baby, Kepa? Baby?”

“Yes son. Your brother and sister. You have to help look after them now.” The lad excitedly reached out and Daenerys recoiled a bit, afraid that he’d swat one on the face. “You have to be gentle, see?” Jon took Aemon’s chubby little hand in his and helped him place it on his brother’s chest. “A baby.”

“You can kiss them sweetling, but be careful,” Daenerys told him, and Aemon bent over and placed his lips on Jaeherys’ forehead. He didn’t know how to kiss, exactly, so it was more like a nuzzle that left behind a little trail of slobber, but he had the general idea.

“Baby!” he squealed delightedly “Baby!” Rūs!” At the sudden shriek, the twins both stirred and started crying, and Daenerys motioned for the wet nurse to take them for a moment. She tried to adjust herself in the bed, wincing in pain, and Aemon curled right into her arms. Jon knew that she was trying to show their boy that he was still important too, even if he could no longer command her undivided attention. Love and adoration filled his heart as he watched her play with Aemon’s curls, and softly sing a song to him before sweetly kissing his forehead. She then nodded to Jon who handed him over to the nanny to return him to his crib. 

“Do you want me to feed the girl, Your Grace?” the wet nurse asked, as Alysanne’s whimper became a wail.

“No, let me. Give the boy to the King.”

The King. She never really called him that, and they’d never said that’s what he was, but the servants saw him as such anyway, and for some reason his growing family made the title seem to fit him more comfortably. He was nearly overcome with the urge to take a knee and ask for her hand in marriage, but she’d be as likely to punch him in the face as to giddily accept. That was still not a subject she liked to discuss, even though they behaved as husband and wife for all practical purposes. Still, it occurred to him that in the eyes of Westeros, he was the father of three little bastards now, no matter what decree she issued. They’d have to talk about it soon, for it wasn’t just his children’s honor that concerned him, but the desire of his own heart. He loved her, he would never love anyone else, he would never give his seed to another, as long as he lived, so why not?

The girl soothed quickly when she latched on to Daenerys’ breast, and fell off to sleep within a few minutes. The boy’s eyes closed too, and he cooed with contentment, and Jon found his eyes growing heavy. The servants made quick work of the bed sheets and covers, and soon the four of them settled into the warm down, Jon’s head nodding with exhaustion, even though he fought to stay awake just to savor the woman he loved and their twin children between them, the boy shoving his thumb in his mouth, the girl’s lips making a suckling motion as they slumbered.

“Jon,” Dany whispered then, stirring him awake with the brush of her hand through his curls.

“Yes love?”

She sighed and shifted, rolling onto her elbow, her gown falling off her shoulder, revealing the swell of her breasts that he longed to touch. 

“I think we should be wed.”

_ Rhaenys, 309 A.C. _

It was a girl, that was all she knew. Only half formed, tiny enough to fit in the palm of her hand, born too soon. More like rejected by her mother’s traitorous body.

They’d tried to be more careful after the twins, but one could not always predict these things, and she and her husband still had a healthy lust for each other. They weren’t always thinking beforehand, not about anything but how much they wanted each other, and the girl had been conceived after he’d returned from a long journey to the North, where she still refused to step foot if she could get out of it. It hadn’t been hard to justify staying in the capital after all. Three children under three years could not abide such a journey, and should not be separated from their mother for so long. She hadn’t wanted him to go either, and begged him to send Davos as an emissary instead, and they’d quarreled quite impressively, and even though they’d mended it before falling asleep, she was still hurt. Some wounds would never quite heal. 

He was gone for three moons, looking beleaguered and aged by ten years when he returned, the effect of dealing with his family. That night they’d made love with the intensity and urgency of the first time, her not caring that her womb was between the flood. She wanted another anyway. He’d been as excited as ever when she told him. Something about his seed quickening in her womb filled him with such pride, she swore his cock grew an inch with each one she birthed.

Then she woke that morning, five moons into it, her belly clenched and cramped, her thighs wet, and she knew.

She’d lost it.

The midwife took the tiny thing away, like it never was. Jon had cried and held her as she wept. She’d lost Rhaego, but that was the witch’s doing. This was all her, because her body was wrong. Her fault. She had one job and she failed.

It was a girl, they told her, and she privately called her Rhaenys, after her slain niece, Jon’s sister. He cried more when she told him that. He was trying to be strong, for both of them, but there is no greater pain to a parent than the loss of a child, even one not fully formed and whole.

For weeks, she was in a daze. She went through the motions of parenting the others, and of running a kingdom, but she was folding into herself all the same. He told her that they could try again when she was ready - the Maester said as soon as the next moon if she wanted - but she couldn’t bear it, and she turned him out of their bed, and even though he still made her heart skip when he entered a room, it was like a wall had been rebuilt between them, the same one that had been erected all those years ago when he learned who he was, only this time it was she who laid mortar and stone.

“I miss you,” he finally told her one night over a late dinner. They were alone, the children having been fed and bathed and put to bed much earlier. “Won’t you come back to bed, Dany? We don’t have to….if you don’t want….we could just sleep….”

She relented out of guilt, and even initiated sex, finding she missed him too, though she bade him to spill outside her, but it felt empty and hollow, just a physical release and not an act of intimacy.

“I love you,” he breathed once he spent himself on the small of her back. He pulled the corner of the sheet and wiped it away, but she could only stare blankly at the wall, rigid in his embrace. He seemed as though he wanted to say something else, but instead collapsed beside her and held her tight, and she only wriggled out of his arms after she heard him snoring lightly. She hadn’t even bothered to remove her bedgown for the act, and the hem was dotted with his seed, and she sat at the vanity and peered into the looking glass for what seemed like hours, weeping. Then she noticed a pair of shears beside her hand, and she pulled her braid over her shoulder and cut it to her nape. He woke to find her like that, sobbing, shuddering, a single braid lying on the floor like a silver snake, and he held her until she had no tears left, because he was not going to make the same mistake again. They were in this together, her losses were his, and she would mourn their daughter for as long as she needed.

  
  


_ Jaeron, 311 A. C. _

“Did you fuck him?”

“What?” she practically spat, taking another sip of wine. She proceeded to straighten the pile of papers on her desk, not because she needed to, but because it bothered him.

“Did. You. Fuck. Him.” He stalked to the desk, leaning over it menacingly.

“I don’t answer to you,  _ Jon Snow, _ ” she said with a glare. “And I will not dignify such accusations with a response. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” 

He’d never been as angry. He knew he was being stupid. Paranoid and insecure. That wasn’t Daenerys. She wouldn’t. But things between them had been strained for several months, with the North causing trouble and the royal coffers nearly emptied thanks to the mismanagement of the former Master of Coin, who’d concocted quite an elaborate scheme to defraud the crown of millions in tax revenue. That appointment had been a conciliatory gesture to the Lord of the Vale, his lover if gossip were to be believed, and now the stupid boy was up in arms, as if he needed more provocation to dislike his Queen, since Sansa stirred plenty of that sentiment on her own. They’d managed for many years not to allow Sansa and the northerners and their allies to be a source of discord between them, but everyone has a breaking point, and the distance between him and his wife was greater than it had been since they first met. She’d gone off to Essos, on her own, to negotiate with the Iron Bank and to pay a quick visit to Dragon’s Bay, and she’d returned with her former lover, the sellsword captain in tow, along with about five hundred of his men. Jon was the military man, and he was unaware that their numbers needed augmenting, and he had to wonder if she’d done it for spite.

He seethed and brooded as this Daario Naharis shamelessly threw himself at Daenerys. He tried to ignore the innuendo and the lustful gazes, and the way he’d hold her hand for a bit too long when he greeted her. It was obvious Dany enjoyed toying with the man, like a cat batting at a half-dead mouse, but a creeping fear that she actually might have feelings for him finally overcame Jon, and he barged into her private quarters, where she’d taken to sleeping without him over the past months.

“You do answer to me, Your Grace, for while a Queen may do as she likes, I will not be cuckold by my own wife!”

“CUCKOLD?” She roared as she stood, her chair falling over with the force of her sudden movement. “And what of you? You think I don’t see you admiring my ladies in waiting, or Northern ladies your sister parades in front of your nose, just to spite me?” She rounded the desk and pressed herself against him, her eyes flashing with fire even as she stood a head shorter than him. She was still the most fearsome creature he knew.

“That’s ridiculous! I would never….”

“Why would you never? You are a man. You’ve not shared my bed in months….”

“Because you won’t let me!” He pounded the desk with his fist and she startled. “You’ve allowed the bullshit and games in this kingdom to sow strife between us, you blame me for things that are out of my control, you bring  _ him  _ here for no apparent reason….”

“There is a reason.”

“Which you’ve never bothered to explain to me! If it were a military issue then I should have been consulted! Instead it seems like a whim, because he used to fuck you, and maybe you’ve missed it.”

“Maybe I have,” she said cruelly. “Maybe I like how it feels to be held and touched and appreciated. Maybe I like the company of a man who doesn’t do everything in his power to avoid being alone with me.”

“I’m avoiding you? You’re the one who can barely be bothered to speak to me! Any free minute you have, you spend with the children. You don’t look at me. You didn’t ask me to go with you to Essos….”

“Why would I do that? You’d just find an excuse not to go.”

“I wouldn’t.” He softened his tone because she was right. She wasn’t the only guilty party. He’d been every bit as thoughtless and careless in their marriage in the last year. The miscarriage was still an obstacle between them, and something had irrevocably shifted between them since then, even though his feelings had not changed. He loved her still. He missed her. He was hurt, and instead of trying to talk to her about it, he leapt to wild accusations about infidelity. Dany was as capable of wrongdoing as anyone, but she’d never given him any indication that she would do  _ that _ . She loved him and he loved her. He reached out and snaked one arm around her waist, pulling her close, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you,” he whispered tearily, “and I’m sorry for being such an ass. I know you would never betray me like that. Nor would I you. You’ve been the only woman in my eyes since the day I walked through the doors of your throne room.”

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, the corners crinkled with age. She wasn’t even thirty, and still looked like a girl, but her eyes betrayed the toll of years of peril, both across the Narrow Sea, and here.

“I love you,” she replied. “I love you so much, Jon.”

He leaned in and kissed her then, and soon clothes were tossed aside, hands exploring naked flesh, and he swept her up and carried her to the bed, placing her on the edge, his fingers teasing her nethers, coated in her juices. He licked his fingers clean and then thrust into her, and it took no time for her to tumble over the edge, taking him with her, milking him dry. Later they made love again, and again in the morning, reaffirming all the promises they’d ever made to each other.

Nine moons later, another babe came, this one a boy, his father’s image. Somehow they both knew he would be the last, for four living children more than cemented their legacy.

Each child was unique. Aemon was studious and sensitive, much like Jon understood his sire to be. He read voraciously, he liked to play the harp and lute, and if he ever wondered where the boy might be, the first place he’d look was the library. He’d taken quite a liking to Samwell for their shared love of reading, and also Sam’s girl Lhyla. Sam and Daenerys had actually settled their differences some years back, and when it came time to appoint a new Grand Maester, the choice was obvious.

The twins were thick as thieves and seemed to exist in their own secret world. Jaeherys loved riding and fighting, and Alysanne was quite an accomplished archer, learning to shoot from horseback when she was all of six years old. She observed her mother keenly, and it was clear she aspired to be just like her one day, a dragon rider, a khaleesi, a revolutionary.

Sometimes he wondered what the babe they lost might have been like. There was a place for her in the crypt, though there was nothing there, because she was as much a real person to them as any of the others. Perhaps she would have liked to sing, or draw. Perhaps she’d have wanted to study at the Citadel. Perhaps she’d have been a brave knight one day. But all he could do was hold dear her memory, and the love that made her.

Jaeron was the apple of his father’s eye, and his siblings' as well. He was a sweet boy, quiet and independent. He was fascinated by the stories of the North, of Brandon the Builder and the Children of the Forest; of the Three-Eyed Raven and the Night King. Perhaps some stories were best left untold, but it was not Jon’s way to be secretive. Not after the lies that had shaped him as a child.

They had a happy childhood; their parents saw to that. When they misbehaved they were disciplined; when they excelled, they were praised. They became their own little pack, Jon observed, and he knew the pack would always survive.

_ Aegon, 326 A.C. _

“Stop pacing.”

He was driving her mad, but at the same time, it was endearing, as he fidgeted and wrung his hands and gnawed at his lower lip. He’d sit beside her for a moment, and she’d hold his hand, then he’d be up again, circling the room, flitting from window to window, sighing loudly.

“Perhaps you should go for a ride in the Kingswood,” she suggested. “It could be hours yet.”

“Or it could be any minute,” he argued, hands on his hips. “You remember how quick she came.”

“Yes, my darling, I remember.” She stood and walked up behind him, circling her arms around his waist, which was a bit thicker than it was when they were younger, but unclothed he was every bit the brick house he’d been when they met. His raven curls were shorn now, and streaked with silver, and the corners of his eyes bore the marking of age, but somehow he was even more dashing than he was the day he showed up on her doorstep. Sometimes she wondered if she could say the same for herself; her breasts certainly weren’t as pert as they once were, her hips were not as narrow, her tummy was softer and marked with the evidence of the children she’d carried for him. “It’s the first. The first often takes longer.”

She couldn’t see the grumpy expression she knew he was making, but he still grasped her hand in his, tugging her arm as he raised her palm to his lips and placed a sweet kiss there.

“We could go up on Drogon,” she offered.

“We can stay.” He sighed again and walked over to his desk, shuffling scrolls around. “I’m sure there’s something to see to while we wait.” He fidgeted some more, rubbed his hand over his face and sank down into his chair, tossing his head back, puffing a frustrated breath.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and kissed the top of his head, before snatching an armload of scrolls away. “I’ll send for Sam.”

As it turned out, it was better that they hadn’t gone far, for their daughter was progressing more quickly in her labor than expected. At ten and seven, Alysanne had wed the son of Prince Quentyn Martell. Jon had not been enthusiastic about the union, for he felt she was too young, and he didn’t really trust the Dornish even though they’d been amongst the first to ally with Daenerys, and he was born there, and he still felt he owed them some recompense for the deaths of his brother and sister and their mother. He didn’t know it at the time, but the Prince had asked for Daenerys’ hand in exchange for fealty, and once he did find out, she knew that he always had to resist the urge to punch Prince Quentyn in his smug, bored face. But now their houses were joined by blood, and the birth of their first grandchild on either side was cause for celebration. And at least Quentyn was still in Sunspear, so they wouldn’t have to deal with him until the tourney he planned to host in a few moons’ time to honor the child’s birth.

The sun had just dipped beyond the horizon when a handmaid came to fetch them, to tell them the time had come, and even Dany had to acknowledge that she was nervous. She heard her daughter’s cries of pain through the walls, and she longed to be with her, holding her hand, encouraging her, but her husband was with her, and it was their moment, not hers, so instead she sat with Jon, resting her head on his shoulder, his hand in hers, contemplating how far they’d come in twenty years. They were harder, wiser, more honest with each other; they were comfortable but still very much in love, as desirous of each other as they were their first night together, but with a familiarity that bred intimacy and ease. When she met him, she loved him soon after, but never fathomed they’d be here now, with four children of their own and a first grandchild ready to be born.

Alysanne named him Aegon, after her father, her hero. Jon cringed at that, for he’d expressly forbidden Dany from saddling any of theirs with that name, but she knew that in his heart he was honored and proud. Now she rested her chin on his shoulder as they both admired the little bundle Jon cradled in his arms. He was a beautiful little thing, with spiky black hair and big brown eyes and skin a shade darker that boasted his Dornish side. Dany had never seen a newborn with eyes so wide and alert, as he studied his grandfather’s face and clutched his forefinger.

“He’s a beauty isn’t he?” Jon sighed, and it was adorable to her how proud he was, almost as if his own children were forgotten.

“He is.” She kissed his ear and he shivered.

“Do that again and we might be havin’ the next one.”

She giggled like a young girl and kissed his ear again. “Not a chance.”

“Don’t you think we’re rather young to be grandparents? Grandfathers are supposed to be old like Ser Davos. I’m only forty-three, and you don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Well, you have died already,” she joked, nudging his arm, kissing his cheek. “And I suppose we’re not too young, because here he is.” She feathered a touch over the babe’s forehead, and he yawned and stretched.

“We have a grandson, Dany. Our baby has a baby.”

“Another Aegon.” He groaned at that, and she swatted him. “You love it and you know it.”

“Aye,” he agreed, pressing his forehead to hers. “Aye, I do.”

  
  
  



End file.
